


best practices in seasonal dessert distribution: a primer

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gratuitous use of brownies, M/M, Mutual Pining, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:26:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5458046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Gotta get the brownies out of the oven," Grantaire said. "Would you like one? I mean, in a few minutes. They need to cool down before they're cut."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>A deep chocolate aroma was starting to float into the hallway. It smelled like luxury, and empty, addictive calories, and heaven.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	best practices in seasonal dessert distribution: a primer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stardust_and_sunlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_and_sunlight/gifts).



> Happiest of holidays to you, Maura16! May your season be hilarious and delicious in equal measure.

"Hello? Hel--"

Enjolras gave up. No matter how much he fervently wished to, he did not drive to a hardware store, grab a large hammer, and smash his malfunctioning smartphone into a thousand glittering toxic shards in an aisle. Instead, with the kind of composure that was about to grind his teeth into dust, he kept traveling on to the hospital. 

Once parked, he also didn't sprint into the emergency room lobby but walked in with brisk purpose. When he finally saw his friends -- dirty and a little dinged up but alive, waiting there near the hospital's multi-tradition display of Kwanzaa bunting, gingerbread village, and light-up menorah -- he allowed himself to take a deep breath and exhale like a sane person.

Bossuet saw him first and met him by the bedazzled reception desk. On his forehead he had a dusty smear that was, surreally, in the shape of Nebraska. "Hey, I didn't mean for you to have to come out here," he said. "Everyone's fine. They're going to release Cosette as soon as her paperwork's finished, and Bahorel's already sprung. He and Feuilly went to get something to drink."

"Good, good," Enjolras said, counting up who was seated. Joly, with a scratch on his cheek and Musichetta holding his elbow with what looked like a death grip; Eponine, pacing; Combeferre examining his mangled glasses while Prouvaire wound a long winter scarf around him the way one might drape garland on a tree; Courfeyrac and Marius, unharmed but sort of huddled together on a bench beneath Courfeyrac's wool coat.

"And Grantaire?" Enjolras asked.

It felt strange to say the name out loud: he had a tilting moment where he wondered if, in fact, he ever _had_ said the name aloud. He regularly spent more of his time than he wanted to admit trying to figure out how to involve Grantaire and pull him fully on board ABC-Amis's progress, or having imaginary arguments in his head with him-- 

No, debates, intelligent, absorbing ones which ran the gamut from polite to heated to hilarious to...persuasive. Persuasive and...Enjolras really could not quite put his head around anything more specific than that.

(Grantaire's hand, warm on his wrist, his eyes dark brown and full of light, the smallest, most private smile on his mouth.) 

Enjolras snapped his attention to Bossuet, who was waiting patiently after what was surely an awkward amount of time. Bossuet had an odd expression on his face. "Uh, Grantaire wasn't with us, remember? He stayed home to bake brownies."

"Oh," Enjolras said. "I thought you said on the phone--"

"No, sorry, we had such a bad connection."

"Yeah, my phone's dying or something," Enjolras said, still feeling lost.

"Seven car pile-up -- man, the traffic around Zayer Mall is bonkers -- but we only had the two vehicles involved. The cars aren't a total wash, but I think Bahorel just became a convert for the cause of public transportation."

"Good," Enjolras repeated. "Not good, well, not bad, but. You know." He collected himself mentally. "Do we need to talk to the police or lawyers or anything?"

"I am a lawyer, as are you," Bossuet reminded him, sounding more cheerful about these facts than he usually was about their profession. "And the police have already come and gone. December 15th, ho ho ho, even the ER is clearing patients in record time. Plus, it's a no-fault state." He scritched at his forehead and grimaced at the grime this left under his fingernails.

Across the room, Eponine exclaimed, "Thank you, baby Jesus," loudly enough people in Bethlehem heard her. Cosette, festooned with a left shoulder brace, was exiting the ER's back door, and Eponine swooped down on her, wrapping an arm around her waist in a move both graceful and perhaps risky. 

Cosette didn't seem to be in any pain; she cupped Eponine's jaw with her right hand and kissed her like they'd been apart for a decade. ...Which, to be fair, they had been, once, and clearly neither of them was quite past it yet. Feuilly (no injuries) and Bahorel (right middle finger in a splint) walked in then and tossed a handful of snowy napkin shreds at them. 

This duel display perked up everyone else. It appeared to be time to leave.

"Enjolras!" Joly said happily, coming over and slipping an arm around Bossuet. The two of them looked at each other, a question on Joly's face.

"I thought he should know about the accident," Bossuet explained. Musichetta was putting a Santa hat on him. The jingle bell at the tip flopped into his eye.

"Ah," Joly said, "it was a doozy. But we're mostly unscathed."

The rest of the gang greeted Enjolras with hugs and, in Prouvaire's case, a candy cane. "It was worth it to see them making them at Kirk's," he said, referring to the ancient local confectionary that made Christmas candies for customers in December.

"It was most assuredly _not_ ," Bahorel said, tugging at Prouvaire's scarf. "Bah humbug."

New vehicle arrangements were decided in the parking lot and goodbyes proffered, and afterwards Enjolras drove Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta back to their apartment. He carried down the complex's hallway a large stuffed reindeer destined to be Joly's niece's weirdest Christmas present. He sat it by their door while Musichetta fished around in her giant purse for keys.

Bossuet said to Enjolras quietly, "Grantaire would probably welcome some company."

Joly, o he of less discretion, piped up, "Yes, go taste his brownies."

Musichetta snorted. "I'm not sure how you managed to make that sound so obscene, sweetie."

"I have a gift," Joly agreed.

Enjolras looked at the door opposite theirs. Where Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta had decorated their door with a tasteful fresh-cut holly swag, Grantaire's featured a '50s style tinsel wreath, onto which someone had wired an Elf on the Shelf elf, who smirked at them demonically.

Enjolras was wondering if this was an evil portent when Grantaire opened his door. 

"Hi," Grantaire said, blinking at the sight of Enjolras. Enjolras watched a startling number of emotions cross his features before Grantaire blinked again, expression now pleasant but neutral. 

False, Enjolras thought. A mask. 

"How was shopping?" Grantaire asked, averting his eyes to pretend (it was so obvious it was pretend, Enjolras marveled) to be interested in his neighbors' goings-on -- Musichetta had unlocked their door, and Joly and Bossuet were attempting to wrestle the reindeer into the apartment without damaging its velour antlers. 

"Productive," Joly said, huffing with the effort.

"Except for the part where we closed down an interstate," Bossuet said.

"All part of the executive plan to endear yourselves to the public, no doubt," Grantaire said in a dry tone. 

"You don't seem surprised," Enjolras said, keeping any hint of confrontation out of his voice.

Grantaire looked at him levelly. "Feuilly texted, and another came from Courfeyrac a second ago. Apparently you and I were the only ones who missed out on all the fun." A buzzer went off somewhere behind him. He turned toward the sound and then back to Enjolras, who watched him take a breath. 

A deliberate breath, Enjolras thought. Like he was bracing himself for something.

"Gotta get the brownies out of the oven," Grantaire said. "Would you like one? I mean, in a few minutes. They need to cool down before they're cut."

A deep chocolate aroma was starting to float into the hallway. It smelled like luxury, and empty, addictive calories, and heaven.

Not waiting for Enjolras to answer, Grantaire called across the hall, "Guys? Brownies?"

"Yes, oh my god, yes," Musichetta called back from the depths of the apartment. "Be over in a sec."

Someone coughed, like they were about to choke. "I mean, we'll be over in an hour," Musichetta revised. Rustling, and a yelp like a broken off giggle. "Or two."

"Go on without us," Bossuet said from somewhere behind Musichetta. He sounded strained, no doubt from the reindeer exertion. Or such. Enjolras kept his eyebrows from commenting.

"And you?" Grantaire asked Enjolras, without quite looking at him. He backed up into his apartment, against the door so there was room for Enjolras to enter if he wanted to.

He wanted to. "Yes," Enjolras said, stepping in. "Thank you for offering."

"It's nothing." Grantaire sidled past him and zipped into the tiny kitchen. 

Enjolras shrugged out of his raincoat, leaving it folded over a chair by the door, and joined Grantaire. The scent of chocolate overwhelmed everything, eventually even smothering the crisp pine fragrance from a squat green candle on the living room windowsill mere feet away. 

"Wow," Enjolras said, as Grantaire hoisted the largest pan of brownies he'd ever seen out of the oven and onto two knit hot pads. "That's. So many brownies." 

Enjolras knew his expression was wilder than a dessert normally required, but his brain was short-circuiting. There were enough molten hot brownies on Grantaire's miniscule counter to feed everyone Enjolras had ever met. He had a fleeting thought: if anyone tried to take a single one of those brownies away from him, he would fight them. There would be fisticuffs. There would be blood.

Grantaire had seen his wide, lust-filled eyes. He moved towards Enjolras ever so slightly. "The recipe starts," he said, in a rough, pleased voice that traveled up the back of Enjolras's neck, "with a pound of butter."

Enjolras didn't emit a single noise in response. He would be proud of this self-control to the end of his days.

Thirty minutes and a full, detailed recitation of the recipe later two enormous squares of brownie were gingerly pried from the pan onto a couple of saucers. Enjolras ate his brownie with a glass of water. Ate was understating it; _inhaled_ , more accurate. 

Grantaire had his with milk and looked amused the entire time. "You didn't go out with the rest of the gang?" he asked as Enjolras cut another brownie.

"Nooo," Enjolras said, licking a crumb off his thumb. Those subjects in scientific tests, who said good food was less satisfying after X-number of bites? Those people were dirty liars who had never eaten these brownies. He took a drink of cold water. "I needed to finish up a few things at the office."

"Ah."

"You don't shop?"

"Not at Zayer Mall."

"Not your idea of a meaningful capitalist experience?"

"Let's say the last time I was there I was asked to never return. A security guard threw me out for 'causing a scene' outside the Ruby Tuesday's, but I maintain having food poisoning is not a crime. Giving someone food poisoning, alternately..."

"Was it food poisoning, or intoxication?"

If Grantaire was insulted by this question, he didn't show it. "A little of both."

"I'm not fond of the mall either," Enjolras said. The sheer volume of sugar and/or caffeine -- from the three pounds of chocolate and a big hit of coffee in the batter -- coursing through his veins made him feel like he was about to fly away. "There's a kid who works the kettlecorn cart who always yells out, 'Hey Apollo!' when I pass by." He plopped another brownie onto his saucer. "I can't decide whether that's a coded insult, or what."

"You're definitely not an Apollo," Grantaire said. 

"Right."

"Even when speechifying."

"Which I don't do at the mall, regardless."

Grantaire nodded as if in deep thought. "You're more like the unlikely, dare I say unholy love child of Alala and Elpis, transfigured from spirit to glorious flesh: 'cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war' -- forgive the Shakespearian muddling of this metaphor -- crossed with the last unceasingly hopeful prisoner of Pandora's jar. The irony." He leaned against the countertop. "You should always carry with you a bouquet of flowers and a pointy spear."

"My preference is for battle cries untainted by fascism, you know, as much as possible," Enjolras said, trying to inject some needed sarcasm into the proceedings. Grantaire's lean was a bit too engaging.

"Don't be silly. These days you remind us commoners more of Xena."

"I take issue with the idea that people other than me are 'commoners,' but I would make a fantastic warrior princess," Enjolras said with confidence, before he could stop himself.

"You really would," Grantaire said, merriment in his voice. "Except you're as staunchly antimonarchist as has ever existed."

"Well, yeah." Enjolras picked up his saucer again. "But aside from that," he said, ducking his head to hide a smile. When he looked up Grantaire was smiling too, a slow sly thing that burned in his eyes more than on his mouth. Enjolras fought to keep from swallowing.

"So," he said.

"So," Grantaire said softly.

I thought you were hurt, earlier, Enjolras almost said. It scared me to think you were hurt.

He remained silent. Grantaire's eyes on his were very dark, very warm.

They both jumped when someone pounded on the door.

Bossuet, Musichetta, and Joly were welcomed in. They bore a bottle of wine, a half gallon of peppermint ice cream, and volcano-hot hot fudge, respectively. Enjolras shouldn't have taken the hot fudge brownie sundae offered to him in one of Grantaire's cereal bowls and he certainly shouldn't have eaten it (running tally: four brownies, two scoops of ice cream, five tablespoons of hot fudge). While the other guests dug into the desserts, he ended up wedged in the kitchen corner next to Grantaire, who slipped his long fingers delicately around Enjolras's wrist. 

The holidays were criticized as a time of excess. This didn't seem decadent, Enjolras thought, but simpler. Sweeter. Maybe inevitable. He laced his fingers through Grantaire's, and held on.

 

"Oh my god, what time is it?"

Enjolras woke squinting, with a head like lead and a creaky voice. Pale sunshine was leaking through the curtains in the living room. He was curled up on one end of Grantaire's small couch and covered with a blanket made of baby rabbit skins. Or petroleum. Either way, he wanted to pet it. 

"Nearly 7 a.m.," Grantaire said. He was sitting on the floor near the window, a mug of something steaming at his side and a book in one hand. A funky little lamp sent up dim golden light and burnished the underside of his untamed curls.

"Of what day?" Enjolras sat up and tried to stretch. 

"December 16th," Grantaire said. 

Enjolras took in this information. His boots, he saw, had been placed by the door. He was otherwise wearing everything he'd sat down on the couch with, except for his good intention to stay for no more than ten minutes longer. Seven hours ago.

"You crashed hard," Grantaire continued, "like, people in medically induced comas are way more aware of their surroundings than you were." He took a sip from his mug. "I confirmed this with Combeferre and Joly so I know it's true."

"Hrrrmm," Enjolras said. "You let me-- You should have made me go home, I mean, I appreciate the hospitality, but I didn't want to take advantage--"

"Enjolras."

"What?"

"Shut up."

"Right." Enjolras rubbed his eyes. "Thank you, though," he said, in a calmer tone, hoping it conveyed sincerity.

Grantaire got to his feet, held out a hand, and helped pull Enjolras to a standing position. "At the risk of actually sounding like Combeferre or Joly, you should probably eat some protein. I have bacon. Or peanut butter? No bread but Bossuet left some crackers last time we had a snack challenge."

"What's a snack challenge?"

"An interesting way to massively exceed your recommended lifetime allowance of sodium."

"I don't think I can do bacon or peanut butter. It's usually just black coffee for me for breakfast, but not until I'm in the office," Enjolras said. "Thanks anyway, though."

"Sure."

"I should. Be going. I guess." For so few words Enjolras's delivery of them constituted way too many sentences.

"Okay." Grantaire bit his lip. "Well. Have a good day in the mines." He fidgeted with the end of his sweatshirt sleeve, until he noticed Enjolras wasn't budging. "You okay?"

"I was just wondering," Enjolras said, cocking his head, all innocence. "Are there any brownies left?"

Grantaire grinned.

**Author's Note:**

> \- yeah i am really bad at titles oof
> 
> \- While pot brownies don't seem outside Grantaire's wheelhouse, the brownies depicted here are legal in all 50 US states. [Here's the best recipe](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/outrageous-brownies-recipe3.html) I've ever used or consumed. They are dangerous. I love them obsessively.
> 
> \- some explanations for Grantaire's random name dropping [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alala) and [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elpis)


End file.
